


Song of the South (If You Know What I Mean)

by So_Many



Category: Supernatural
Genre: And Maybe Castiel, BAMF Castiel, Bottom Castiel, Castiel Can Sing, Cop Dean, Dean Just Wants to Blow Off a Little Steam, Dean likes it, Dom Castiel, Dom/sub, Fluff and Smut, Gentle Dom Castiel, Harvelle's Roadhouse, M/M, Sub Dean, Subdrop, Supernatural AU - Freeform, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-05-23 23:23:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6133668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/So_Many/pseuds/So_Many
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man opened his eyes, and Dean sucked in a sharp breath.  This was a mistake.  An absolute, honest-to-God mistake.  He had never been much for that chick flick stuff, but the phrase “devastatingly handsome” stuck in his head, and <em>damn.</em>  Sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw, coupled with piercing blue eyes and the fact that this guy looked unfairly good with five-o-clock shadow was shutting down whatever reserves Dean’s brain had been running on.  There was nowhere left for that voice to go but straight to his dick.  It didn’t matter if he was telling Dean to <em>Hit the damn Quan.</em>  He was on board.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Well, Fuck It.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments make me stronger.  
> Which is great because stealing souls is generally frowned upon.  
> Maybe if Amara just wrote fanfiction everyone wouldn't be trying to kill her.  
> Oh, and maybe if she KEPT HER GODDAMN HANDS OFF OF--
> 
> You know what? I'm fine.

Dean pushed open the heavy oak doors of the bar, warmth and the heady scent of alcohol rushing out to greet him like an old friend. He usually avoided The Roadhouse on Wednesday nights, but this was a special occasion. Only three days in and this week was already shaping up to be more than he was willing to bear on his own. That’s where his old friend Jack Daniels came in.  


Wednesday was “Live Music” night at The Roadhouse. Not that he had anything against the bands that Ellen normally booked, but there was something unsettling about being trapped so close to the stage without the thrum and cheers of bodies to blanket him. Dean would get tunnel vision, unable to focus on anything but the noise, and he would have to because the band could see him and it would be rude not to give them his full attention when really all he wanted to do was _relax._  


But this week was shit. IAB was breathing down his neck for punching out some sleazeball in lockup, and sure. Maybe he didn’t have to hit him _that_ many times, but the things Alastair was saying were enough to make his skin crawl and almost jam a pencil in his ear. He shuddered just thinking about it.  


And he couldn’t exactly go home. He and Sammy had gotten into a fight when Dean came home in the middle of the day to find his baby brother skipping class to make out with some chick named Ruby on their couch. But apparently he wasn’t _a little kid anymore, Dean,_ and Ruby wasn’t trouble with a capital T even though Dean could smell it off of her from a mile away.  


He needed a drink. Just one, that’s all. So he flagged Ellen’s daughter, Jo, down from the other side of the bar and quickly retreated to the back corner of the room before he could get roped into an unwelcome conversation. Dean slid onto a stool behind a high, round table as far away from the stage as possible and swirled his glass. Familiar heat spilled down his throat, radiating into his chest, and he sighed.  


The digital clock on his phone stared back at him mockingly. No new messages. Whatever. Radio silence was a game both Winchesters could play, and it’s not like he expected a drove of sympathy from his coworkers. He should have known better than to let Alastair get under his skin. The guy was a fucking psychopath and had been taunting the whole station from the moment his cuffed ass was hauled in. It had been ten years since his mother was killed, Dean should have been able to handle his snide remarks.  


A sudden reverberating strum from the other end of the room stirred Dean from his thoughts. The band must have been taking a break, he supposed, not really having processed that no one had been playing when he entered the bar. There were a few snickers from one of the closer tables as a dark-haired man strapped on one of the guitars that had been leaning off to the side. The man gave another tentative strum before glancing offstage. _I guess his bandmates ditched him,_ Dean thought, and a pang of sympathy rang through him. It wasn’t like Dean was feeling particularly supported himself.  


The strums picked up in speed and confidence, and Dean was predictably unable to tear himself away. _Not bad,_ he mused to himself. He wasn’t entirely sure it was a song yet, but the guy had a decent rhythm, and he used the time to take in the view. From what he could see at his distance, the man was wearing a waist-length black jacket over an indistinguishable band t-shirt and a pair of well-fitting blue jeans. Objectively speaking, of course.  
A brown booted foot began tapping along to the beat as the chords finally changed into something resembling a pattern. He tipped up his mop of dark, messy hair toward the microphone, and—  


“Holy fuck.”  


Dean’s brain short-circuited because _that voice._ That deep, gravelly, panty-dropping, _sex voice._ He needed to get closer like _yesterday._  


He downed his drink in one fell swoop and tore his eyes away for as long as humanly possible to scope out a free seat closer to the stage. This man needed his full attention because after all, it would be rude not to. Dean waved at the bar for another drink as he crossed the room and took his new seat directly in front of the microphone. The singer didn’t seem to notice, however. His eyes were closed as he crooned and fingered the strings on that _very_ lucky guitar.  


“Hey, Dean. Like what you—“  


“Shhhh,” Dean hissed as he waved a hand dismissively at the intrusion.  


“Fine,” the young blonde girl huffed as a fresh drink sloshed onto the table with a clunk.  


He would apologize to Jo tomorrow.  


The man opened his eyes, and Dean sucked in a sharp breath. This was a mistake. An absolute, honest-to-God mistake. He had never been much for that chick flick stuff, but the phrase “devastatingly handsome” stuck in his head, and _damn._ Sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw, coupled with piercing blue eyes and the fact that this guy looked unfairly good with five-o-clock shadow was shutting down whatever reserves Dean’s brain had been running on. There was nowhere left for that voice to go but straight to his dick. It didn’t matter if he was telling Dean to _Hit the damn Quan._ He was on board.  


All too soon, the song ended and a lingering note rang out over the final chords. Dean pulled his eyes away from the long expanse of exposed skin at man’s neck and found a set of blue eyes focused directly at him. A flush crept up Dean’s cheeks, causing him to turn away. All he did was open his mouth, and Dean had turned into a fucking groupie. The man was good. He probably had an actual following, and even though he was playing in the fucking Roadhouse of all places, it would make sense that he already had a piece of tail lined up for after the show. How could he not? One song and Dean was ready to throw his _completely fictional_ pink, silk panties on stage at the guy. And he couldn’t even tell you what song the man had just sang.  


“Hey! What the hell are you doing?” shouted a voice from offstage.  


The dark-haired man’s eyes widened, and he hastily ducked out from under the guitar’s strap to place it back on its stand. Dean was confused. Were his bandmates mad he had performed without him? If they were going to have a stick up their asses about it, why didn’t they just get on stage when it was time to go? A group of four guys came bristling out from the back, but the blue-eyed singer was apparently in no mood to talk. With a wink and a smile at Dean, he jumped off the stage and jogged toward the back door at the other side of the bar. What was—  


"Ellen,” the short, wiry-haired leader of the group whined. “Would it kill you to watch our stuff while we’re on break?”  


“Sorry, Chuck,” the owner laughed as she wiped out a glass with a towel. “The guy was pretty good.”  


So that guy wasn’t even…  


“Sorry, ladies and gentlemen,” Chuck addressed the room as he picked up his guitar and surveyed it for damage. “I hope you enjoyed our special guest—“  


"Castiel!” a girl with long, red hair supplied from a table off to the side. Dean belatedly recognized it as the group that had been giggling when tall, dark, and handsome had taken the stage.  


“Yes, Castiel. Thank you,” Chuck sighed into the mic.  


He was just a guy. Just some regular guy who had wandered up on stage with sex hair and a voice like liquid gold and—  


Dean had to find him.  


He slammed back his drink and twisted out of his seat to make a bee-line for the backdoor. He had to talk to guy. I mean, he just waltzed up on stage and started grabbing things that weren’t his. That was like trespassing or something, right? After all, he was a cop. It was his duty to follow up on this.  


“Hey, Dean—“  


“Put it on my tab, Ellen!” he growled back without stopping. If he didn’t go now, he could lose the nerve. Or _worse._ The guy could be gone.  


Dean slammed open the stubborn, metal door of the back exit and—  


There he was.  


Leaning against the brick wall, staring and smoking a cigarette like he had been _fucking waiting for him._ Dean’s mouth went dry, and the guy just grinned.  


“Took you long enough.”  


And oh, fuck. Dean’s pants tightened because he _had_ been waiting for him. He tried desperately to shake the fog enveloping his brain from being so close to the guy. He had to say _something._  


“That’s a pretty bad habit you’ve got there,” Dean managed to croak out. His blood hummed through his veins. Smooth, Winchester.  


“No problem,” the stranger said as he ground out the butt with one of his boots. “I think I’m about to pick up a better one.” He smirked at Dean as he lifted himself away from the wall.  


And that was it. Dean and the guy he somewhat knew was named Castiel crashed into each other in a glorious mess of teeth and tongues and _holy fuck_ he even _tasted_ good.  


Dean chased the flavor and moaned into Castiel’s mouth when those dexterous fingers found their way up into his hair. The man gave an approving hum at the sound and dragged Dean backward with a hand on his head and a fist in his shirt until they were up against the wall. Dean slotted a leg in between Castiel’s thighs and rolled his hips.  


“Cas,” he groaned, and the shorter man chuckled against the base of his neck before sucking a harsh bruise. Dean’s hips stuttered and God help him he was going to come right then and there if he wasn’t careful. What the fuck was it about this guy?  


“Ahem,” came an unwelcome voice from behind them, and Dean almost couldn’t tear himself away from the length of heat rutting up against him.  


“What,” he snarled at the intruder as he turned.  


Benny?  


“Whoa, brother. Easy now.” The man held up his hands defensively, but looked more amused than anything. “I just came to check on you to see how you were holding up, but I see you’re making out just fine.” His partner smirked at him and folded his arms across his chest.  


Really? _Now_ someone comes to check on him?  


“Yeah, I’m fine,” Dean said, clearing his throat. He peeled himself away from the man beneath him and was met with a growl. Dean’s head whipped around. _Shit,_ that was hot.  


“That’s alright, man,” Benny eased, holding up his hands again. “I’ll let Sam know you’re alright and not to expect you home anytime soon.” He winked as he backed out of the alley.  


“Thanks, Benny,” Dean grumbled as he turned back to admire his work. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”  


Castiel looked fucking _debauched._ His hair was messier than before, and his lips were wet and pink and swollen and Dean had half a mind to finish this right then and there in the alley.  


“What’s your name, cowboy?” Castiel asked from under heavy-lidded eyes. His breathing was starting to slow, and Dean didn’t like that one bit.  


“Dean Winchester,” he replied hoarsely as he crowded back into Castiel’s space.  


"Hmm,” he hummed appreciatively against Dean’s jaw-line. “Want to join me for breakfast tomorrow, Dean?”  


Fuck. Yes.  


“Only if you let me take you to dinner,” Dean breathed against Castiel’s temple, grinding his hips down lazily and inciting a delicious moan from them both. Because, fuck. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to get blue eyes and the sound of gravel out of his head.  


“Mm, yes. But not tonight,” Castiel assented as he slid out from underneath Dean, who whined at the loss of friction.  


“Come on,” he urged, offering Dean his outstretched hand.  


Maybe this week wasn’t shaping up to be too bad after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a picture I saw of Misha with a guitar from NashCon this weekend. Thanks to those who coerced me into writing this!
> 
> MY FIRST EVER FIC/FICLET  
> TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK  
> I'M NERVOUS


	2. Letting Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you trust me?” the other man asked as he stroked a thumb across his jawline, a warm fondness suddenly curled around his tone, setting a different kind of heat racing through Dean’s veins.
> 
> By some act of God he finally remembered how to close his mouth and was able to nod meekly as he looked up through long lashes, clumped together and glittering with fresh tears.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, okay. Had no idea this was going to go in this direction when I wrote the first chapter, but I like it. Also, I had no idea that was the first chapter of something more, but HEY! Here we are.
> 
> Not beta'd in the slightest. Probably shit. Feedback/suggestions are welcome.
> 
> Thanks for being the wind beneath my wings!  
> 

“You’ll have to drive, by the way,” Mr. Sex-on-a-Stick relayed as he led Dean out of the alley and back around to the small, gravel parking lot behind the building. “Unless you don’t mind sharing a seat,” he continued, gesturing to one of those whiny motorbike things as they approached.

“Hm? What? Oh, yeah,” Dean grunted as he glanced up and away from the pair of jeans in front of him. He fished a set of keys from his jacket pocket and released Castiel’s hand to point at a vehicle the next row over. Jesus, he needed to get ahold of himself.

“Here she is,” he beamed as they neared the sleek, black car. He trailed his fingers affectionately across the hood as he rounded the front to the driver’s seat. Showing Baby off to his date (this kind of qualified as a date?) was always the highlight of Dean’s evening. The awe on their face when they took in her smooth lines and sharp edges. Over two tons of pure muscle. And if they didn’t like her, well _fuck them._ It saved Dean a whole lot of trouble. But that was his Baby—always had his back.

“Well?” Dean asked once they were seated, unable to suppress an expectant raise of his eyebrows.

“It’s…nice.” Castiel nodded thoughtfully as he looked around the cabin.

“Nice?” Dean squinted at his passenger in disbelief. “That’s all you gotta say? She’s nice?” Christ, he should have known better than to pick up the first guy to make out with him in an alley.

Castiel seemed to choose his next words carefully. “It’s clear you put a great deal of love and care into her.”

Fucking political-ass bullsh—“I’ve got half a mind to throw you out of this car right now,” he warned, turning away from the road to wag a finger at the douchey, stupid-hot, wannabe rockstar he mistakenly decided to take home.

“And the other half?”

“The other half is gonna—”

Long lashes ducked down over that sweet set of baby blues as Castiel leaned back against the black leather seat in feigned innocence. Dean swallowed as his eyes drifted down the trail of supple skin formed by his neck. _God,_ if he could only taste it again he could—h-he would—

“Pound your ass into next week,” he mumbled aloud, lost knee-deep in fantasy. A soft chuckle drew Dean from his fog, and he responded by re-doubling his efforts to squeeze the life out of his steering wheel as he turned to face forward. This fucker _knew_ what he was doing to Dean.

_Focus on the road,_ he chanted to himself. _Focus. On. The road._

Speaking of which…

“Where am I going, anyway?” Dean quipped to himself as much as he did to Castiel. Sam was supposedly at home, and as rocky as things had been between the two of them, bringing home a…whatever this counted as probably wasn’t going to help the situation. Well, _shit._ He fought the impulse to lay on the breaks once he realized he had no place to take them short of getting a room and that was… _ugh._

His thoughts began to take a frantic edge as he realized their night might headed for an abrupt end. Dean hadn’t realized how much he needed this, wanted it, whatever—until he was faced with the possibility of losing it. He hadn’t had any real intimacy or felt this electric since...well, since he was in the Academy with Cassie. Yeah, sure. He’s had plenty of sex since then, and it was great. Awesome, even. And technically, sex was all this was with Cas at the time, _(wait, when did he start calling him Cas?)_ but to Dean it felt like it could be…like—Jesus, fuck he needed to get over himself because he was verging on the edge of some fucking Nicholas Sparks shit, and don’t even fucking ask why he knew that name because—

“We can go to my place,” Castiel offered lazily, turning away from the slowly fogging window. Dean couldn’t help but notice the way Castiel’s legs fell open as he replied.

“Great….great.” Dean swallowed again, his mouth the fucking _Sahara._ At least Cas had pulled him out of whatever weird-ass spiral he had been working himself into _(which seemed to be the trend today,)_ and if Dean hadn’t already been planning on literally _blowing_ Cas’s mind, a ‘thank you’ blowjob would have just made its way onto the table. Speaking of which, Dean needed to either get an ever-loving grip or just pull over and do the deed in the back seat _(which, no no no no no no nooo. He was_ not _cleaning spunk out of Baby.)_ because the steadily building pressure in his jeans had just became a _little_ too hard to ignore. Ha.

Well, Castiel the Motherfucking Mind Reader must have been listening, because suddenly his voice was about three times closer _(since apparently he couldn’t give directions from his own fucking side of the bench seat and was clearly intent on killing them both in some sort of fiery crash.)_ He completely and _unnecessarily_ gestured to the left by pointing directly in Dean’s field of vision. Fuck, did he smell good, Dean marveled. And if that wasn’t enough, along with the complete violation of personal space came what might have been a reassuring squeeze to his upper thigh. In this case, however, all it did was cause Dean to jolt the wheel and curse while Cas smirked and leaned in to growl “turn here” into Dean’s ear.

Ten minutes and six more torturous instructions later, Dean found himself in front of a towering, brick apartment complex that matched the majority of the other edifices in the city. So it wasn’t very new. No big deal. The guy lived a modest life. Dean could respect that.

Although what he could _not_ respect, was the downright _cruel_ behavior Castiel had been putting him through for the rest of the drive. Dean had finally said “fuck it” to public decency and self-control and whatever the else fucking blah blah blah bullshit at about the time _Cas_ decided it was _perfectly_ fine to start licking and kissing and nibbling the shell of his ear. Dean had let go of the steering wheel with the intention of palming himself through his jeans with one hand when—

“Ah ah aah,” Castiel crooned teasingly into his ear as the hand that had been massaging up and down Dean’s inner thighs shot out to grip his wrist with _way_ more strength than Dean had given him credit for. All he could do was whine desperately while Castiel tsked and cooed to placate him as he placed the wandering hand firmly back on the wheel and returned to his work, tearing Dean apart little by little.

Dean was a blubbering, needy mess when Cas finally told him he could get out of the car. He was testing him, he knew it. He had exited the vehicle first, instructing Dean to keep both hands on the wheel until he finally leaned in through the passenger side window and said gave him the word. Dean didn’t know what had snapped in his brain on the way over, but Dean wanted _so badly_ to be good for Cas. He needed it. Cas didn’t outright say he couldn’t touch him when he got out of the car, but somehow he knew he probably shouldn’t. Maybe he was testing Cas as well? His body and mind were warring in some new way that he couldn’t process through all of the screaming _wantwantwantneed_ in his head. His body wanted release and his brain needed to be good and he needed _just a little_ friction and suddenly he was behind Cas, rutting up against him with one arm pulled behind his back like he was a perp about to be cuffed. A melody of wanton moans and cries he barely recognized as his own poured from his mouth and into the soft, dark curls at the base of Cas’s neck until—

“ENOUGH.” Castiel roared as he hooked a leg around Dean’s and spun them around until Dean’s back lay flat against the side of the Impala.

Dean could do nothing but let out a hoarse sob as he clutched the front of Castiel’s shirt under where the man gripped him by his jaw, holding him up with a thigh wedged between Dean’s own. The logical shame and guilt that should have been burning behind his eyes was buried too far beneath his own need and the overwhelming sense of being broken. _Shattered._ Forget the super glue because Dean wasn’t even sure he still had the pieces left to put himself back together. Sam hated him. He could lose his job. Oh, and let’s not forget Dean was utterly fucking alone. He was one lost dog away from a country song and it turns out, that seemed to be the icing on the cake. Not even fucking pie, but cake. Another sob wracked his frame as he slumped against his Baby and the blue-eyed stranger.

“Shhh, shhhhhh,” Castiel cooed as he tilted up Dean’s chin so he could meet his lips. There was no hunger in the kiss this time. The long, languid drag of tongues soon had Dean melting, and Castiel hummed into his mouth with a pleased sigh.

He pulled back eventually, allowing Dean a soft exhale as he loosened his grip on Castiel’s shirt.

“I’m going to take care of you, Dean Winchester,” Castiel stated plainly as if he was doing nothing more than reading instructions on how to assemble some shoddy piece of furniture. Insert tab A into slot B. That’s just how it went. That’s just what was going to happen. This guy he barely knew was going to take care of him. Castiel looked down at what was probably the sad sight of a freckled man from over the bridge of his nose. All Dean could do was tremble and cling tighter in response, his mouth hanging open dumbly, apparently broken like the rest of him.

“Do you trust me?” the other man asked as he stroked a thumb across his jawline, a warm fondness suddenly curled around his tone, setting a different kind of heat racing through Dean’s veins.

By some act of God he finally remembered how to close his mouth and was able to nod meekly as he looked up through long lashes, clumped together and glittering with fresh tears.

“Good,” Castiel purred as he stepped back to pull Dean away from the car. He drew his wrist up between them, hauling Dean’s body against his chest without so much as batting an eye. He was strong, Dean thought. And warm. Dean wasn’t lying when he said he trusted Cas. He felt _safe._

“Then follow me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter was so short! It seemed like a good place to stop. No idea when I'll update, but I like where this is going so I think I'll try to get back to you with some semblance of a schedule. "Try" being the operative word here.


End file.
